


Gunsmoke

by Malind



Category: Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997)
Genre: Angst, Dive Bars, Enemies to Lovers, Excessive Drinking, M/M, Mental Instability, Sarcasm, Smoking, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:07:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25451380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malind/pseuds/Malind
Summary: Even after two-hundred years, a certain silver-haired man just won't stay dead.
Relationships: Vincent Valentine/Sephiroth
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Gunsmoke

Vincent took a drag of his hand-rolled cigarette and then held his breath, resting his hand back on his knee. He held in the smoke for a few seconds to absorb the abundant genetically-enhanced nicotine which immediately set to work. His heart rate picked up and slowed down within seconds. Parted lips blew the smoke out in one smooth stream, adding to the dive bar’s already thick cloud. The air promised an early death to the people there. Well, to everyone except him. Unfortunately.

The heavy-metal music pounded the walls and everything in between. The occasional sweeter song wasn't much gentler. The music wasn’t Vincent’s taste. But it did him a favor, at least, drowning out the drunken conversations he had no interest in.

A woman, donning scrap of sequined cloth, danced up on the stage to the heavy beats. He’d barely glanced at her nor at the rest of the strippers who walked the floor. They knew from experience not to bother with him. His wallet was always zipped up tight, well, except to keep the alcohol flowing and to give his doting waitress her well-deserved tip for ignoring his sour mood.

Yeah, he would have preferred different music. He didn't converse with anyone. He had no interest in looking. And he sure as hell didn’t touch or let them touch him. He didn’t come to this place looking for those things. 

He came to this place because, here, he was guaranteed solitude, unlike the gay club down the street. He wanted to be left alone. He wanted to wallow. He wanted to let the world pass by–in the vague company of others.

Who needed friendship, love, sex, fresh air? Not him. Fuck no.

There was no better way to spend eternity than what he was doing right at that moment as far as he was concerned. And that was what he’d been doing his damnedest to convince himself of for decades.

Pain stung his backside from sitting in the same position for a good twenty minutes. He shifted a bit in the hardwood chair, right before the club’s front door opened. Despite the distance, he flinched at the sunlight pouring into the dank room.

The light also proved it was still too early to be drinking without accusations of being a drunk. Had someone called Vincent a drunk, he wouldn't have denied it. In fact, he would have lifted a bottle in salute. But, to really be a drunk, one had to be able to get drunk in the first place without literally drowning in the crap. Even with this latest bottle, he wasn't feeling a buzz. Drinking was a complete waste of money for him. But nostalgia kept him sitting there, a warming bottle in hand, his tab flourishing.

Whoever had walked in, Vincent didn’t bother to care who they were. They weren't here for him. Any chance of them being more than an acquaintance had died a century before with Marlene, the last person he’d known and cared about–a friend from what felt like a previous life. She’d been the last because there was no way in hell he was going to wreck his heart and mind all over again.

Everyone died, even the people he hated, and every one of them was irreplaceable. They died while Vincent lived on as if he wanted to.

Despite his professed indifference though, Vincent found himself flicking a glance to the door. His rooted training and bloody experiences wouldn't let him not look. Or some seriously unwanted part of him was plain curious or, God forbid, hopeful. 

The flick turned out to not be enough. He looked back.

An outline of a man entered the dingy bar. Tall. Well-muscled, his shoulders broad and waist narrow. It was impossible to make out individual features though with the light behind him and with Vincent's eyes so used to dimness. 

Long light hair swayed with each slow step–hair really too long for a man, or anyone for that matter–and reminded him of a certain someone he wasn’t going to name that afternoon and ruin every second of it. The hair must have been a pain in the ass to care for though. Vincent could relate. His hair wasn’t nearly as long but it was unruly and prone to being a rat’s nest if he didn’t brush it. 

One of those days when he got around to it, he’d cut it, eventually, as in probably only when he started sitting on it again. But this man’s hair... He definitely sat on it. And it gleamed in the sun behind him which made it impossible to really judge its color.

The man’s steps were unhurried before he stopped to look around as the door swung closed behind him. He carried no obvious weapons. His stance was relaxed. Even the turning of his head seemed like an afterthought. Doubtless he was just checking out the dancers. Why else would someone come to this hellhole?

Nope, no threat to be had there. Outside of the fact that his shape thickened Vincent’s dick a bit.

As such, Vincent looked away and grabbed his now warm beer, sucking down the rest before he put the bottle down among the other empty bottles.

Vincent drew in another deep drag of his cigarette as his head fell back until it rested against the wood-paneling behind him. Looking up at the ceiling, he sucked the smoke deeper into his lungs and lived in the short buzz. The deafening beats of the music gave their best efforts to destroy his eardrums. His belly swam with warm alcohol. He'd have to piss eventually but not at that moment. The world drifted away as he closed his eyes, blew out the smoke, and gave his aimless mind freedom.

Yeah, this was a fine way to spend the afternoon.

Never mind that, in a few hours, he'd be out the door. Other than the strip club, the nightly patrol was his only remaining tie to the world outside his head. Along with many others, he helped protect Edge from a growing horde of beasts. Lately, those numbers were coming dangerously close to drowning their resistance. It didn't seem to matter how many they killed. And no one knew where the hell they were coming from, seeming to pop out in quick procession from oblivion’s spread legs.

At least most of the creatures only came at night. But many people feared, soon, that would no longer be the case. He was beginning to believe it himself as the beasts’ ferocity grew and their fear dropped away. They were probably half-starved out in the barren wastelands that now covered so much of the planet.

Eyes closed, the last bits of Vincent's tenseness flitted away. 

For about four seconds. 

Something blocked the dim overhead light. Blinking up at the blockage, Vincent's eyes focused on something, okay, someone.

...Someone who sure as hell wasn't supposed to be there. And, this time, not because everyone's presence was unwelcome. What Vincent was looking at was a dead man. A long dead one. One who apparently still had no intention of staying dead.

Vincent’s heart thrashed in his chest, demanding action. In turn, every muscle in his body tensed right back up and then some. Vincent's mouth parted as his eyes widened. His head jerked away from the wall. He hoped Sephiroth didn't notice the extent of his reaction. But he probably did as the swordsman's lips curled up.

Vincent realized then that it would have been an excruciatingly good idea to submit to his body's urge to react. Yeah, action would have been a fucking fantastic idea right about then. Unfortunately, Death Penalty was on the other side of the table against the wall in his lonely little corner, just out of his reach. Sephiroth’s closeness barely gave him any wiggle room. And Cerberus was safe and secure at home, being of little use in the long-distance accuracy he needed for his patrols. 

"You remember me," Sephiroth said. The words amounted to a half-shout so it could be heard over the pulsating music.

_ As if there's a chance in hell I  _ could _ forget you. _

The thought must have shown on his face since Sephiroth's smile grew. Apparently, the idea pleased him. Fucker.

"Not because I want to," Vincent half-shouted back as his mind raced to come up with a proper course of action that didn't revolve around sitting on his ass. 

Unfortunately, he couldn't think of anything that wouldn't result in death. 

He hadn't killed a person in decades as life on the planet had boiled down to a precious few. Never mind humanity had been the ones to kill everything in the first place. He didn’t want to start killing again that afternoon. Not even for Sephiroth. Mostly because of the guarantee it wouldn't be just Sephiroth's death. And because Sephiroth obviously just couldn't stay dead. Or never did actually die. Maybe he couldn’t. If so, it was a curse they had in common. 

But if Vincent didn’t act against Sephiroth at that moment, could the world survive it? There was so little left to the world as it was, and this man only brought death wherever he went. 

Sephiroth was a lunatic, a monster, evil itself. Something far worse. There wasn't a coarse enough word to describe him. And he couldn’t be reasoned with. There was no way to make him simply walk away. Sephiroth had proven over and over again that he was single-mindedly relentless in whatever suited his fancy that day, from purposeful, vengeful death to all unworthy creatures to blissfully riding the planet as his vessel.

And of course, in facing this man alone, Vincent knew he himself had a good chance of dying as well, considering what Sephiroth was capable of. But would that have been a bad thing? No, it really wouldn't have been. It would have been a fucking fantastic thing, in fact. But he had to make sure he took Sephiroth with him in the process. As such, Vincent forced himself to think beyond who was looking to die that pleasant afternoon.

So, he moved on to the fact that this chance meeting seemed far too convenient to be a mere coincidence. Had Sephiroth been looking for him?

Or, hell, had Sephiroth simply followed the call of the Jenova cells Vincent still harbored inside his body from Hojo's torturous, vengeful, grotesque, and, let's not forget, highly scientific experimentation. Vincent couldn’t forget any of it because every time he looked at himself, he could see his red, glowing eyes, his deathly pale skin, his abundance of scars, his prosthetic arm. All of it reminded him every single day why he was still here. He avoided looking at himself at all costs.

As such, Vincent had enjoyed slaughtering Hojo, far more than he should have. Or perhaps not enough.

And all those thoughts got Vincent no closer to figuring out what he should do at that moment. Sephiroth was nice enough to give him the time to think about it all though, as he watched Vincent closely.

Trying to calm his adrenaline rushed body, Vincent took another drag of his cigarette with trembling fingers. He wished the buzz would last a bit longer, especially with the buzzkill in front of him. Smoke streamed out of his lips with his obvious question, "What are you doing here?"

And ' _ How did you get here, again? _ ' was a pretty good question too. Apparently, there wasn't a hell. Or Sephiroth had found the strength to escape it. The world already knew from experience that Sephiroth had the will.

Instead of answering, Sephiroth half-shouted right back, "You managed to stay alive."

That was questionable. But any existence Vincent had left, he had Sephiroth’s father and mother to thank.

Sephiroth added, "And you're still here because...?"

Vincent was pretty sure it wasn't a biological question. With the careful way Sephiroth was looking at him, seemingly into his very soul which surely–hopefully that wasn’t possible–Vincent wasn't even sure it was a question at all. But, if it really was a question, Vincent figured Sephiroth's true words were: ‘ _ How did you survive watching your friends, family, everyone you care about die? How haven’t you found a way to kill yourself yet? I thought you hated everyone and everything, including your own life.’ _

Okay, half of those words were probably Vincent's own disbelief over the matter.

But, no matter who’d come up with them, Vincent could have said right back:  _ ‘And why bother coming back to this hellhole? You’re not exactly drowning in loved-ones either. Of course, you could still just be a sadistic, crazy-ass mother fucker, hellbent on riding the planet as your vessel. Then I suppose you have a reason, but it's still a pretty shitty one.' _

... _ Was _ Sephiroth here to try to take the planet for a ride again?

Well, if he was, then why bother coming here to have a friendly chat with him? Sephiroth could have already been half way through conquering the world by the time Vincent left the strip club. There had to have been more to the conversation than met the eye. But Vincent didn't have a clue what it could be.

When Vincent only stared, Sephiroth's surely false smile slipped into neutrality. Sephiroth's quietness proved the man was thinking. Admittedly, it was a nice change from the unveiled threats and sword slashing, with a side-helping of evil, smirking glares. But what was he thinking about? 

Whatever Sephiroth’s thoughts were, surely they weren’t a good thing. How could they possibly be a good thing with this man’s track record? 

More adrenaline flooded Vincent, begging him to take some kind of action. He hated the feeling but couldn’t stop it. 

Why the hell was this happening? After so many years, after so much suffering, suffering that wasn’t even wholly because of Sephiroth...

_ For fuck's sake… _

Vincent’s eyes slammed shut as he struggled to breath properly, light-headed, feeling on the verge of a panic attack or something.

_ Why couldn't you just stay dead? Or at least stayed the hell away from me? Or just got it over with and killed me on the spot? _

Vincent opened his eyes again, wishing Sephiroth wouldn’t still be standing there. Praying this whole encounter had just all been in his half-crazed mind. After all this time, nearly two hundred years later… 

Sephiroth wasn’t alive. He couldn’t be. He just couldn’t…

Vincent looked up at the other man. The world seemed so far away as they stared at one another.

Had Vincent been kept alive for over two centuries just to suffer this moment? Just to experience this stabbing torture that would finally thrust him into insanity? And, of course, to let him know he  _ still  _ hadn't been forgiven for what he’d let happen to this man, to Lucrecia, to every suffering person in the world, to the world itself?

In a moment of resignation, of pure overwhelming exhaustion, Vincent realized that if Sephiroth was here to kill him, he wouldn't stop him. He wouldn't even breathe a word of protest. In fact, he might even encourage him. Because Vincent knew he couldn't live an eternity. He just couldn't. But nor could he kill himself. He’d tried. A lot.

Well, deep down, he knew he’d never _ really _ tried. He just hadn't found the balls to do it. He still had some unwanted instinct for this forsaken thing that could barely have been called a life. The monsters crawling inside of him, that kept him forever looking twenty-seven, was just an excuse. 

And, of course, when Sephiroth completed the task, Vincent would drag Sephiroth along with him, just in case there was a hell. And he'd personally keep Sephiroth there this time. The world deserved that peace, from them both.

So, Vincent sat there and waited for what Sephiroth would do. As the seconds passed, Vincent wondered if he'd have to encourage the swordsman to get it over with and kill him right then and there. Really, there wasn't another person alive who could kill him. There wasn't another who could survive the things inside Vincent if they tried.

The irony of it all...

And what Sephiroth did then... 

Well, it defied logic. It defied everything that made sense.

Sephiroth turned away. He, in fact, walked away, leaving Vincent's jaw slackened in his disbelief.

The last time he'd seen Sephiroth, two years after Meteor had been summoned, the man’s madness had tried its damnedest to consume anything and everything, again. Sephiroth had only sought to torment and destroy, to get what he wanted, again. And in the end, he'd died, again, because of his relentless hatred for everything.

Now...

_ What the fuck just happened? _


End file.
